


The First Law of Thermodynamics

by Argyle



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Plot What Plot, Vehicular Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-19
Updated: 2011-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-21 13:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The supersonic jet needs breaking in. And Charles and Erik are just the men for the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Law of Thermodynamics

As soon as Hank finishes the last of his trials on the supersonic jet, the mansion is abuzz with talk of seeing it, and wonderings of who its pilot will be: Alex and Sean are the first to volunteer for the latter.

Hank shrugs them off, perhaps a little embarrassed by the attention -- but he is obviously also proud of the thing. He's completed much of the design work on his own, needing the help of the government scientists for their money but not their minds.

 _The most advanced plane ever built._

Erik puts it down to mutant ingenuity, plain and simple.

And Charles can't help but admit that Hank's relentless perfectionism has led to some striking advances. Hank understands the potential within each of them, and pushes the boundaries of science to make it a reality: Cerebro, Alex and Sean's suits, Raven's serum--

"She's making a mistake, Charles," Erik says, late one night, both of them exhausted from the hours they'd spent training, from their debate during chess, and from the quite glorious sex they had after. Erik cards a hand through Charles' hair, massaging his scalp a little.

This sends a pleasure-filled shiver through Charles' body, though he's finding it difficult to concentrate on anything but his own easing pulse. "Hmm?"

"Raven," Erik clarifies.

"What about her?"

Erik turns on his side, one arm braced beneath him. He catches Charles' eye. "To alter something so fundamental about oneself. It makes the wrong point."

"There's no need to politicize this, Erik. You don't know Raven like I do," Charles sighs, bringing the sheet up around himself and shifting so that he and Erik face each other. "She was nine when I found her. Or when she found me. And it's a wonder she did -- she was abandoned by her family, and do you know how she'd been living? Meal to meal, town to town, like a frightened animal."

"I do know, Charles. I lived like that."

Charles feels a prickle in Erik's mind -- but no, it's greater than a prickle, it's a flood held back by the levee which here and there leaks through the stone. Anger and shame and regret, for Erik _had_ seen that, and more. More than any man ought endure. Charles pushes back the urge to rifle through Erik's thoughts and placate him totally. So instead he reaches forward to press his hand.

"She's been strong, Erik," he says then. "But the road is hard. If this -- the ability to go among people without the constant fear of exposure... Which is something you have not experienced, not exactly, not like she has, and nor have I. If this serum _frees_ her, we'll all be better for it."

"You can't make that choice for her."

"It's what she wants."

"No." Erik shakes his head. But he doesn't let go of Charles' hand. "I don't trust it."

"Hank himself, or his expertise?"

"Is there a difference?"

Charles lets this pass. "Have patience. In time, I'm sure Hank will even have something for you," he says, knowing well that Hank _had_ offered to work with Erik and help enhance Erik's powers through whatever technological means he could. And Erik told him he needed no such thing.

A few minutes go by, and then Erik says, "I want to see the jet."

*

Two days later, they drive together to the airbase.

Charles makes sure their presence goes unnoticed. It is not an easy thing to toss a shroud over so many minds, though lower ranking military types are more prone to suggestion than most: to those they pass in the hall, Charles and Erik are nondescript technicians, surely meant to be there and scarcely worth a thought.

By the time they make it to the hangar, the place is deserted.

Erik looks at Charles, bemused.

"Lunch break," says Charles.

"Good," Erik says. And then, "So, where is it?"

Charles doesn't answer him. He's too busy staring -- or if he's honest, _gaping_ \-- up at Hank's jet.

Half of Charles' boyhood had been spent holed up in his bedroom building model spitfires. And in the time since, he has maintained a healthy interest in modern aeronautics. But this -- this is impressive.

Erik begins to stride towards it, and a moment passes before Charles breaks his gaze from the clean black lines, the girth of the engines, the hatch slowly lowering--

Oh, bother.

"Erik!" Charles catches up to him just as the jet stands fully open. "We can't."

"Why? You said it yourself, Charles. No one knows we're here," says Erik. Then he begins to ascend the stairs. His voice trickles down when he makes it inside, faintly metallic, "If I'm to put my faith in Hank, I've a right to see what he's offering."

Charles' brow works itself into a knit. Erik is impossible.

But he's also probably right.

When he gets inside, the door shuts behind him with a wave of Erik's hand.

"Yes," says Erik. He slides into the pilot seat, taking in the unlit buttons, cranks, and levers on the console. "I think this will do quite well."

Charles moves behind him. "You don't fly, do you?"

Again, Erik shifts his hand. This time, like a beast waking, the engine roars to life beneath them. The whole jet trembles with raw power. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "It's all metal, you know. Turbines, fans..."

Charles' knuckles go white on the back of Erik's seat. "Don't."

And there's this, bubbling to the surface of Erik's mind: _So easy. It can be so easy. I can find him, he'd never expect--_

//Yes. Easy, Erik// Charles sends, and tries to soothe Erik with a thought. //We're in this as a team. You can't face him again on your own, not after what we've come to accomplish. After the distance _you've_ come.//

"Don't be a fool," Erik murmurs. For several moments, he keeps his eyes shut. Then a shudder seems to pass through him, and the console lights go dark. The engines whirl to a halt. "The day will come."

"And we'll be there together," says Charles.

"I expect no such promise from you."

Erik unfolds himself from the seat. His cheeks are slightly flushed, and Charles doesn't need his powers to know it isn't just from the exertion of running the jet. He has that look about him, the one that sends a bolt of arousal straight to Charles' cock. The one like a cat perched on the canary's cage.

And in a moment, Erik is close, a hand on each of Charles' shoulders; close as he maneuvers them both to the wall panel. Then Erik takes Charles' hands and pushes at his sleeves to expose his wrists: Charles has lately taken to wearing a set of thin silver bands there, flush with his skin, just above each pulse-point.

A reminder, solid and jointless. A zero-sum.

Erik circles his thumbs over them, drawing warmth.

Now whenever Erik is close, Charles imagines perhaps irrationally that the bands serve as a buffer against the ills of the world, almost seeming to reverberate with Erik's energy. The fact that they grant Erik leverage over Charles' limbs is simply a bonus.

And yet Charles still senses a certain awe in Erik, a wonder that Charles would allow such a thing.

Charles leans in to kiss him, just for that.

//Is it good, Charles?//

//Yes.//

And then, breathlessly, "But you certainly do pick your moments."

Erik doesn't reply. He just presses closer, his tongue working against Charles'. Charles feels more than he sees his belt loosening, unaided save for Erik's will. Then Erik does raise his hand to Charles' trousers, palming him through the wool before he undoes his button and zip.

"Are we still alone?" Erik asks. He works his fingers into Charles' briefs and smoothly takes hold of Charles' cock.

"God," Charles hisses. Alone, never alone-- he reaches out with his mind to scan the perimeter, just for a moment, just to make sure. "No, no one's coming."

"Good."

Erik drops to his knees, taking Charles' trousers and briefs with him. They pool at Charles' feet. And then Erik's breath puffs hotly along his length, his tongue flicks at the tip, and Charles' capacity for higher thought goes out, right out as Erik takes his cock down in one slow breath.

With a gasp, Charles wrenches his eyes shut. Erik is too good at that.

It's all Charles can do to keep his hands off of Erik's head, forcing him to _move_ , but then as though gleaning the thought, Erik latches on to the bands and guides Charles' arms up and over his head, locking them to the side of the jet.

Charles allows himself to laugh at that-- //Handy.// -- though only for a moment. Erik does move, finally, agonizing and slow, his palms and fingers pressed tight enough to Charles' thighs that Charles feels the ruddy welts begin to form beneath them.

He can't keep on like this. Not by a long shot.

//Erik, please.//

Erik pulls off, a flushed, heady smile grown across his mouth. "Tell me what you want, Charles."

It's still a struggle for Charles to speak, so he sends the image of it instead: Erik pressed against him, buried to the root, and Charles' legs slung round Erik's hips as he coaxes Erik deeper still.

Charles is a dab hand at logistics. And Erik always comes prepared.

//Yes,// Erik laughs, his mind shaking with lust, and beneath that, affection. He rises up, undoes his own belt and trousers, and pulls a small tube of lubricant from his jacket pocket. //You're learning, Charles.//

Erik coats two fingers, then reaches around Charles' body to prepare him. Next, three. And Charles lets out a low, guttering moan when Erik pushes farther, brushing his prostate.

When Erik hoists Charles' legs up, the strain is at first unbearable -- there's just too much gravity at work, the weight of his whole body threatening to rend his shoulders out of alignment. But in a moment, Erik's hands are at Charles' arse, bracing Charles against the wall as he nudges his cock to Charles' hole.

It's still awkward. And yet Charles is filled with a lightheaded honey-sweetness, a slow burn, and Erik's cock is pushing in as Charles' thighs tighten around him, his legs crossed at the ankle by the small of Erik's back.

Erik's chest is pressed to Charles'. Offhandedly, Charles wishes they'd shed the rest of their clothes: the jet affords little circulation, and sweat has begun to trace down his spine, beneath his shirt.

But then again, no. Erik's sweating too. And with each thrust, his grip tightens on Charles, and Charles tilts his head to take in the salty scent of Erik's skin, and the rising musk of his body-warmed leather jacket.

Erik wears that damned thing _everywhere_.

It's almost too much. And then it is.

Charles comes, his cock pouring hot between them, his frame shaking with it. He thinks there will be bruises at his wrists before long. But the ache of his own drag adds another edge to the swell of pleasure, and it's not unwelcome.

Then blinking the sweat from his eyes, Charles looks out the cockpit window. He gasps. Oh, Christ--

The jet. The jet is hovering ten feet off the hangar floor.

"Erik! We're--"

//Yes.//

And Erik's coming too, shifting his hips through his orgasm, burying his face in Charles' collar just as he presses Charles hard against the wall panel.

A second passes before Erik releases his hold on Charles' wrists and Charles sags into him, panting. They settle to the floor together. Erik's eyes are wide and inviting. He blinks.

Then the jet drops.

A low, immediate tremor rocks through the hangar, rattling the bay doors. An alarm begins to churn somewhere outside, down the runway. And inside the jet, Charles and Erik barely feel a thing.

"Leave it to Hank to install more than the recommended amount of shock absorbers," mutters Charles.

Erik huffs out a breath. "Funny, but that sounds like a challenge."

Damn him, but Charles can't say it isn't.


End file.
